


An Almost Total Wreck

by shrink



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8611843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrink/pseuds/shrink
Summary: Cooper's birthday is the perfect opportunity for Albert to prove his affection. Only his careful planning doesn't exactly work out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a Twin Peaks fic! It is set sometime during the Laura Palmer murder investigation. Sorry for any wonky canon inaccuracies, for most of my questions I turned to Twin Peaks wiki, and for yet others I guessed and kept writing!

**x.**

Albert taps his fingers against the wooden countertop of the Great Northern’s front desk. He scoffs at the oppressively wooden decor — less like nature and more like someone’s grim interpretation of it. But the reappearance of the front desk employee redirects his thoughts.

Before she opens her mouth, Albert knows it isn’t good. Her eyes dart from the ground to his face in quick blinks, and he prepares for the insipid apology offered universally by customer service workers.

“I’m sorry sir, our normal cook called in sick today — and the kitchen staff doesn’t know anything about a cake.”

“So this whole place falls apart when one person calls off?”

“We have other pastries today — bear claws, blueberry scones...”

“If a _scone_ would have been acceptable, do you think I would have special ordered a cake?”

She only offers him a strained smile while another woman leans forward to peer at him from further down the reception area. He knows he isn’t going to win here. A cake isn’t going to suddenly appear from his frustration. Nothing ever does. And yet.

“I can offer you a complimentary pastry,” she tries again. The pastry wasn’t the point and he knows she knows that. Knows she was trying to get him to accept what she’s told him so he’ll walk away. Knows she is doing what millions of customer service lackeys would do in her position.

“What is it about the listening comprehension skills in this town? Did you all undergo some rite-of-passage tumble down the mountain?”

She shifts her weight onto her other foot, a look on her face that accepts _it’s going to be one of those days_.

“Morning Albert!” Cooper’s bright greeting is accompanied by a clap on the back. He pauses at Albert’s side. “You look like coffee is in order,” he says, glancing between the receptionist and Albert with a close-mouthed smile.

“If the staff can manage it,” Albert grumbles, but follows Cooper’s lead into the dining area.

“I’ve never found reason to complain,” Cooper says brightly as they take their seats. Albert tries to think of a time when he’s heard Cooper complain about _anything_. Maybe that was part of their problem.

A gray haired waitress strides over to their table with menus in hand. “That won’t be necessary,” Cooper says, before launching into his breakfast order. Albert waits for his turn, staring at the sticky syrup ring next to the plastic packs of grape jelly on the table. He shouldn’t ask for a rag, it won’t interfere with his food. But really, if this is what they allowed him to see — what was going on in the back other than a culture of disorganization and laissez-faire oversight. He only looks up when he feels two sets of eyes on him.

“Coffee,” he blurts out, “and toast.” When he realizes her pen is still poised to keep writing he clarifies. “ _Just_ coffee and toast.”

The waitress gives him a one-over before sticking the pen back in her apron, as if his lack of an appetite was a personal affront to her. But he isn’t hungry at all, the anticipation of today had kept him up most of the night. And now that Cooper was in front of him, the anticipation had turned into full-blown anxiety.

“And oh —   _Marlene_ —” Cooper says, eyeing the nametag stabbed through the top of her apron, “would you mind adding to that your freshest pastry, today is my birthday.” He flashes her a grin that says he’s both sorry to bother her but also begs the universal cheer that should accompany birthdays.

“Well happy birthday, hun,” Marlene grins, “and I’ll make sure that pastry is on the house.”

“Fantastic!” Cooper smiles one of those ambiguous smiles Albert can never discern the sincerity of.

He wonders, as he watches Marlene’s retreat to the kitchen, if the whole thing wasn’t just a stunt for Cooper to ensure that he couldn’t forget his birthday. Insurance to protect his happiness from Albert’s oversight.

“Happy birthday Coop.” His well wishes are only an echo of the waitress whose name Cooper had learned seconds ago.

“Thanks Albert,” Cooper says unfazed as the waitress places a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him. “I know you’re not the type to get sentimental.”

Albert watches as Cooper takes a sip of his coffee, catching the look of sadness that passes over his face. Since they’d started seeing one another a couple months ago, their relationship —  if you could call it that, which Albert never did out loud —  had been more about discrete late night encounters than gift-giving or hand holding. It’s not that Albert didn’t want that, that he didn’t want _anything_ that drew him closer to Cooper, it’s just that Cooper assumed he didn’t. And Albert was too stubborn and begrudgingly hurt to correct him.

“Just sorry you have to spend it in this place,” Albert says gruffly, but he’s more sorry for himself than Cooper. In Seattle there would have been tons of restaurants he could have made a reservation to. Somehow a romantic evening at the Double R diner, exchanging glances over the special of the day just didn’t cut it. And Seattle also would have had a wider selection of birthday cards than what was offered at the local drugstore here. He’d spent the better part of an hour deciding between the bizarre _Birthday Blessings_ card with a crucifix on the front and the simple _Happy Birthday_ written over a bouquet of cartoon balloons on another. Ultimately he’d walked up to the counter and bought a pack of cigarettes, chain smoking his way back to the Great Northern, but otherwise empty-handed.

Cooper only shrugs and smiles warmly. “It’s not where you are, Albert, it’s who you’re with.”

“I agree with you there Coop.” Albert wonders if his cheeks have turned as red as they feel. The knowing smile passing between them is broken when the waitress places their food down.  She proudly adds the dried-out looking danish serving as Cooper’s birthday dessert. Albert sips his coffee and says nothing. The botched birthday cake, thank god, wasn’t the only surprise he’d planned for today.

“Is that all you’re eating?” Cooper motions to the untouched plate of toast.

“It was going to be but it’s burnt.” Before Cooper can respond Albert lifts his coffee to his lips. “This is all I need anyway.”

Cooper shots him a look. “Albert, a hearty breakfast is essential for optimal brain function.”

“I’ll remember that the next time _you_ announce there’s only time for coffee.”

Cooper smiles and lightly kicks him under the table. Albert takes another sip of coffee to hide his grin.

The rest of breakfast is spent talking about the case. But he finds it hard to focus as Cooper turns over details of his latest lead. Albert realizes all this ambiguity is his fault. His fault for never stopping Cooper when he pushes the covers off of him in the middle of the night to retrieve his clothes from the floor. For keeping his eyes shut, no matter how much noise Cooper makes fumbling for his coat in the dark. Today will end all that Albert tells himself as Cooper washes the danish down with a gulp of coffee.

As they grab their coats Albert thinks about the stupid balloon card back in the drugstore. It would have been something, anything to set up the day. Why didn’t he buy it? Just in case? He was an FBI agent —  trained to anticipate the unexpected, to have a plan for twenty different outcomes. Of course the hotel fucked up the cake. It would have been surprising if they hadn’t.

“Is everything okay?” Cooper asks quietly, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his coat. He squeezes Albert’s arm lightly, his eyebrow raised in concern.

Albert nods, before blaming the coffee for not kicking in. He turns his lighter over inside his pocket, knowing Cooper doesn’t believe his lie.

 

**xx.**

Later at the station Harry and Cooper are called away to investigate a new lead. Albert offers up some weak but apparently passable excuse of needing to stay behind to reexamine tissue samples. Once he hears the Sheriff’s beat-up Jeep pull away, he leaves the pretense of the conference room and heads to reception.

“Hey there Curly,” he says, having never bothered learning the blonde receptionist’s name. “A package should have come for me. From Seattle”

Even if Cooper noticed the package for him, he would likely dismiss it as a modern piece of equipment that Albert had requested from headquarters to replace the medieval medical tools in this town.

Lucy glances up at him, “A package from Seattle,” she repeats like an accusation, laying down the pen she’d been using to unsuccessfully fill-in a crossword puzzle. “I don’t remember a package from Seattle.”

“Well can you check because it should have been here yesterday,” he says with strained patience.

Lucy shoots him an unimpressed look but stands and walks towards a small room behind reception like she happened to be going in that direction, anyway. So this is what Sheriff Truman’s punch in the mouth had cost him; the ability to intimidate a small blonde girl.

He hears her repeating the words, “Agent Rosenfield” and “Seattle” and imagines her running her finger across the labels of the five packages that are probably stored in the back. He tries not to focus on the growing dread in his chest at the idea that the package never arrived. What is it Cooper says? Your thoughts can manifest your reality or... something. And right now his thoughts need to manifest a birthday present.

“Agent Rosenfield?”

“Yeah?”

“There _is_ a package from Seattle addressed to you.”

Albert lets out a breath, the instant relief flows through him as he moves behind the counter to retrieve it. When he enters the back room, he glances from Lucy standing on a chair to her fingertips brushing a package precariously balanced on the top shelf. The words _stop, no,_ and _fuck_ shoot through his head like a dart. But he can only watch it fall to the floor in a clamor. It’s moments like this that confirm his ineptitude as a field agent, the instinct to freeze and over think too much to overcome.

Lucy looks down from the chair with doleful eyes. “Sorry Agent Rosenfield.”

But Albert is on his knees, turning the package over, listening for the telling sounds of brokenness. He reminds himself how no amount of clever insults and erratic yelling about carelessness and general stupidity won’t make the contents magically unharmed. But it’s only through his teeth biting down on his lip that he’s able to keep the words inside.

Lucy hands him a pair of scissors, leaning over to watch as he cuts open the tape with delicate precision. He brushes the packaging peanuts aside and stares down at the golden bowl.

“What _is_ that?”

“A Tibetan singing bowl,” he says deflated, his fingers running over a sizeable dent in the side.

He fishes the small mallet from the bottom of the package and uses it to strike the bowl. But instead of the peaceful reverberating sound the saleswoman over the phone assured him it would create, it rings flat before abruptly stopping.

“Singing bowl?” Lucy repeats, not impressed.

“Or um...” Albert stands, taking the package with him. The last thing he needs right now is her repeating those words to Cooper.  “It’s a fume expeller,” he says the words loudly, as if hoping to embed them over the truth. Her blank expression tells him that any attempt to excuse this away as a piece of medical equipment would be lost on her, regardless. “You wouldn’t understand.” That much was at least true, he reasons, as he backs out of the room with the package in his arms like a wounded animal.

He carries it to the empty conference room where several donuts were creating pools of grease on white paper towels. The gold bowl looks more impressive out of its packaging on the wooden table. It was supposed to help unlock some chakra or other. But the dent in the side was unmistakable, making it both useless as some new age instrument or as an effective candy dish.

Just to be sure he strikes it one more time, and the off-key awfulness reverberates through the room. He throws it back in the box along with the mallet. It was a stupid idea, anyway. He should have gotten Cooper a book or something. Something less destructible. He probably already has one of these. And if he didn’t, then he probably doesn’t want one. That’s the problem with people who are passionate about their interests —  they suck up everything there is to know about it —  leaving no role for everyone else in their life to contribute. But even now, the thought makes Cooper somehow more endearing to him.   

He lights a cigarette and sits back, taking a long drag while glancing at the clock. Maybe he could find something else passable in town. It’s hard to imagine anything good sitting beyond the dusty shop windows of Twin Peaks —  particularly when he is surrounded by donuts getting staler every minute. He grabs the box, fully intending on throwing it into the trunk of his rental car on the way to the closet store when Lucy stops him.

“I have Agent Rosenfield here —  just a minute,” she says into the receiver before holding a finger up to him. She speaks into the receiver again, “I’m putting you on hold now.”

“Agent Rosenfield, I have Gordon Cole on the line for you. He’s on hold. He’d like to speak with you.”

He grabs the phone, leaning back against the counter. “What is it Gordon?”

“We had a triple homicide this morning Albert. We need your expertise back in Seattle ASAP on the double.”

Albert holds his still lit cigarette between his fingers as he listens and notices little red flecks of blood on the filter. He sucks in his lip, apparently having bitten down harder than he’d realized earlier.

“I’ve got my hands full with the Palmer case,” he says, swallowing hard to get rid of the metallic taste from his mouth.

“I know you’ve got your hands full out in Twin Peaks but I need you here two hours ago, I have three dead bodies and no obvious cause of death.”

“But Gordon — ”

“It’s grim stuff Albert.” Gordon says in that way of his that really means _this isn’t a discussion_.

“I’m leaving now.” Albert passes the phone back to Lucy, still able to hear Gordon’s shout of _“please leave now!”_ through the receiver.

“Agent Rosenfield —  are you taking your fume bowl with you?”

Albert pinches the bridge of his nose, the childlike voice piercing his thoughts almost outburst worthy. Instead, he grabs the edge of the box on the way to the coatrack, sparing an irritated glance at Lucy in the process.

“I’ve been called back to Seattle, tell Agent Cooper — ” he looks at the clock on the wall behind her as he’s halfway to the door. “Tell Agent Cooper that I’ll be back tonight.” But the words are more like a wish than a certainty. With investigations of this magnitude it can be hard to know when you’ll see the outside of the Bureau office again. Lucy nods and goes to write that down on a notepad, apparently incapable of remembering even the most basic of information. Albert wishes he hadn’t noticed, the detail only compounding the rest of the irritation of the last fifteen minutes into a solid tension headache.

It’s raining almost as soon as he hits the road, the dampness sends a chill through his bones that blasting the heat doesn’t combat. It doesn’t help that every time he hits the brakes, the box in the trunk slides forward, a couple times he swears he can hear the off-key chiming. Of course, driving through the middle of nowhere gives him the option of three radio stations, each more awful than the one before. This wasn’t exactly the day he’d planned on having.

He’d only found out that it was Cooper’s birthday a couple days before arriving in Twin Peaks.

He had gone over to Cooper’s apartment late, and they’d fumbled their way to the bedroom, Cooper’s belt hanging undone when the phone call had come in from the office. He had apologized, promised he wouldn’t be long, and directed Albert to the leftovers of a vegetable curry in the fridge.

Albert said it was fine —  they could do this another night. But when Cooper’s eyes fell to the floor Albert had agreed to wait, at least until the rain died down outside. Cooper offered him a half-smile as he reached for his shirt. Albert hated himself. Hated that he couldn’t admit he _wanted_ to stay, wanted to be here when Cooper made it home at whatever ungodly hour he’d return. Wanted to eat the stupid leftovers together and give in to the cup of spiced chai that he’d would offer him along with it.

Instead, he spent the next two hours watching the rain hit the railing on the balcony, wondering why it was he couldn't say those things out loud. God knows he could express his unfiltered opinion about every other subject in the world. So why was it impossible to tell Cooper the truth? But what was the truth? He didn’t know what he wanted. He only knew what he didn’t want. He didn’t want Cooper to think this was about sex. He didn’t want to catch those sad glances he shot him when he thought he wasn’t looking. Didn’t want this to end because one night Cooper doesn’t answer his phone. Because he needed something more and could find it in someone else.

Albert had sighed and turned away from the balcony to glance at the clock when he’d noticed the small collection of birthday cards. They were from Cooper’s family members mostly, inscribed with pleasantries, hoping in a noncommittal way they could visit soon.

After turning the cards over in his hands and peering in the fridge at the curry —  which Cooper had clearly made extra of  —  he turned and reached for his coat.

It’s not that he didn’t want to stay. It’s just that he didn’t want to pretend when Cooper came home that he’d been sitting here all this time just to fuck him. Didn’t want Cooper to pretend that’s all he needed. It was beneath both of them, and until Albert knew how to break the charade, he’d at least distance himself from it for both of their sake.

He’d spent the rest of the night in a diner down the street, not quite wanting to be in public, but not wanting to go home either. He’d been on his third refill of coffee when it had occurred to him; if he couldn’t say something, he could _do_ something. Show Cooper how he felt. It had felt like a fog had been lifted, the steps forward were clear. And it was only a matter of finding out his exact birthday —  which had been easy —  and giving him a present, which had appeared simple up until now.

Still, Albert hates that he’s put himself in this position. Mostly because acts of kindness were easier to plan than execute. He was always left feeling like kindness was a magic trick he never learned to pull off. The cards falling from his sleeves. And now with a day ahead of him processing crime scene victims, the prospect of making _anything_ happen was fading. Normally he’d be glad for the puzzle put before him by his job. His mind working through possibilities, untangling the clues. But now he is being bested by a different kind of puzzle, and the solution feels out of reach.

 

**xxx.**

The rest of the day is a haze of post-mortems and paperwork. By the time Albert is scrubbing his hands in the sink the sun is setting over the Bureau parking lot. But in the few moments he’s had to himself, mostly consisting of the time he spent slurping down the cup of ramen he bought from a vending machine and repeated trips to refill his mug of increasingly burnt coffee, he’d come up with a plan. A thrown together plan, but a plan all the same.

And by the time he’s heading back down the road to Twin Peaks, a box of the chocolate eclairs Cooper is always raving about are in the passenger seat. Along with a bottle of wine, plastic tablecloth, and an assortment of candles he’d assembled from the dollar store. If he was going to celebrate Cooper’s birthday at night —  it might as well work to his advantage. The clouds that had carried rain earlier were clearing, and the stars were visible between the trees on the open road stretched in front of him. It feels right somehow, like it was meant to work out this way all along. He thinks Cooper would appreciate knowing that, and decides to tell him the whole story later.

After pulling into the parking lot of the Great Northern, he carries all the items to the seemingly ancient picnic table stuffed between pine trees by the waterfall. The lights from the hotel cut through the trees, making it just bright enough for him to see what he’s doing. Once he has the tablecloth weighed down with the jar candles and bottle of wine, he pauses to light a cigarette, as he admires his handy work. The box of pastries is tied with a gold ribbon, which will probably shimmer when he lights the candles. He imagines Cooper sitting alone in his hotel room, looking over the case files, probably wishing —  in a way he’d never admit  —  for a better birthday. Albert smiles when he imagines the look on Cooper’s face when he brings him here.

He heads back to his hotel room to brush his teeth in an attempt to wash away the taste of cigarettes he knows Cooper hates. And runs a quick hand through his hair as if that’s ever done him any good. He practices exactly what he’s going to say on the way down the hall to Cooper’s room. Something about needing a walk —  maybe some excuse about wanting to discuss the case. When Cooper agrees, he’ll lead them to the picnic table. He tries not to think of what will happen when they get there —  because isn’t the point of gestures that they’re supposed to speak for themselves?

But Cooper doesn’t answer the door to his room. Albert glances at his watch. It’s not unusual for a case to keep agents out at any hour. Still there’s a sense of disappointment. He sighs and returns to his room. He picks up the phone and dials the Sheriff’s station.

“Twin Peaks Police Station — this is Lucy,” comes the vapid voice he’s heard enough of today.

“This is Agent Rosenfield —  can I speak to Agent Cooper?”

“Agent Cooper is at the Roadhouse, Agent Rosenfield,” She pauses, before adding with a strange emphasis, “Did you know it’s Agent Cooper’s birthday?”

“At the Roadhouse for what?”

“Like I said, _it’s Agent Cooper’s birthday_ ,” she repeats, like he’s the stupid one. “The Sheriff took him out to celebrate.”

Albert sighs, leave it to the good country people of Twin Peaks to find any excuse to get loaded on cheap beer. He hangs up the phone and sets out to collect Cooper. Knowing him, he’s probably bravely putting up with the drunken behavior of Harry and the gang of goons that follow him around. But if what he said at breakfast was any indication —  there was some place Cooper would rather be, _someone_ he’d rather be with. Albert feels his cheeks burning as he searches his coat pockets for his keys.

He pulls into the parking lot of the Roadhouse, ignoring the jeers of several leather coat wearing morons, leaning against motorcycles like something out of a bad movie. Is everyone just a cliché? Albert can’t help but wonder if emotionally repressed, cynical, gay FBI pathologist is a box he’s fallen into. If there are others out there maybe they should form a support group, or at least compare notes.

He spots Cooper through the crowd immediately, perched on a stool at the bar. He’s listening intently to a story that Andy seems to be mostly telling through hand gestures and exaggerations. Albert would need all the booze lined up behind the bar to fake Cooper’s level of interest.

When Albert walks up, Andy pauses his story —  which somehow causes Truman and Hawk to swivel their heads in his direction.

“Albert!” Cooper’s eyes brighten as he motions to the seat on the other side of him. There’s an almost empty mug of beer sitting on the bar in front of him, and his tie is pulled loose from its knot. “You came back!”

“Hey Coop, I — ” Albert pauses, shooting everyone who is unabashedly staring at him a look of annoyance. He turns his back, so he’s facing away from them, ignoring Cooper’s invitation to take a seat. Cooper is watching him with a small smile playing at the edges of his lips. And because _Hey Coop, I planned a romantic stargazing picnic for the two of us to prove my feelings for you_ doesn’t feel like quite the most comfortable thing to say with the three eavesdropping morons staring at his back, he says, “I just got back from Seattle —  there was a triple homicide —  I need your opinion on my findings today.”

Cooper raises an eyebrow and mirrors Albert’s smirk. “Of course. The _homicide_ ,” he says, his voice pitching too high at the end as his eyes drop to Albert’s lips.

Harry swivels in his stool, a crooked smile on his lips as he looks Albert up and down.

“Come on, can’t you see we’re celebrating —  it’s Coop’s birthday.” His words are slurred and Albert can smell the whiskey on his breath. How professional.

“It’s FBI business Harry – we really should get going – you understand.” Cooper slicks his hair back with his hand.

Albert nods, his keys swinging from his fingers as he surveys the club with a general look of disapproval.

“Aw but we just got here,” Harry says, swinging an arm over Cooper’s shoulders. Albert stares at his big hand hanging by Cooper’s chin with a kind of prickling hatred. “Everyone came out to help you celebrate Coop.” Andy nods along dumbly from his stool and Cooper smiles guiltily.

“Oh, I’m sure you can think of some other excuse to sit around and drink.” Albert waves a dismissive hand through the air.

Cooper only smiles tightly at both of them. “This _can_ wait until later, can’t it, Albert?” he says in his diplomatic way, shrugging his way out of Harry's grip. Albert thinks of the picnic table – the candles, the eclairs, the bottle of wine – everything waiting in the dark for them.

“Coop –” Albert shoots him a look but Cooper only lifts a hand helplessly

“Yeah —  have a drink, stay awhile.” Harry tugs at the collar of Albert’s coat. It was just another example of the patronizing way he gets treated around here. Like Harry is the cool jock who was putting on a show of making room for the social fuck-up. Albert pulls away and takes a step back from all of them.

“Any good law enforcement officer should know the first forty-eight hours are the most critical in an investigation,” Albert says, feeling too hot under the collar of his shirt. It’s never a good sign when he starts relying on facts to make conversation.

“Relax, Albert,” Cooper says under his breath, grabbing him by the elbow to pull him closer. Why was Cooper _never_ on his side? They both knew he was right. Even if the entire premise was a lie, he was still right about the facts.

“Well,” Harry says, a condescending smirk spreads across his face, “any good law enforcement officer _also_ knows when it’s time to take a break.”

“Is that what you did after finding Laura Palmer’s body washed up? Is that what we owe this entire botched investigation to?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry shoots Hawk a look. Good to see he’s the bigger person, even when drunk. Albert watches with contempt as Harry tilts his beer to his lips to finish the bottle.

He wasn’t going to win here. He should leave, wait for Cooper to come back to the Great Northern —  whenever that might be. Only he’s tired of waiting. Tired of trying —  tired of biting his tongue —  tired of letting everyone off the hook for their ineptitudes.

“Somehow you got yourself nominated prom king of this forgotten sinkhole,” Albert says, squaring his shoulders, “but where I’m from we take our jobs seriously.”

“Around here, we know how to treat our friends.” Harry glances at Cooper.

“The way I hear it you know how to treat sex-starved widows too.”

But Albert isn’t sure if that last word gets out before Harry’s fist cracks against his nose, sending him crashing into the bar. His shoulder connects with the cheap wooden counter, before he slides down the front, knocking a barstool to the ground in the effort to keep his legs underneath of him. Somehow in the flurry of movement, Cooper’s drink unceremoniously spills onto the counter, dribbling onto Albert’s neck and coat as he steadies himself.

As he blinks the bar in and out of focus he hears Harry apologizing to Cooper before being led out of the bar by Hawk. _I don’t care_ , Albert thinks —  his hand clenching his nose from his crouched position —   _I’m glad_. Blood is leaking between his fingers onto his favorite white collared shirt. Which is fine too. Cooper’s hands are under his arms, hauling him to his feet – only letting go when Albert shoves him away to wipe the swell of blood from his nose on a beer-soaked napkin. The people gawking at him slowly turn away to resume their conversations now that the action is over.

“Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” Albert asks too loud, it’s petty to say – and yet.

Cooper looks at the bloody napkin and shakes his head. “Albert there’s a way to talk to people…” He is gripping his shoulder and Albert wonders if he looks like he’s in danger of passing out. “And the negative energy you’re expelling, at least in this town, is coming back to hit you in the face.”

“Spare me the lesson on cosmic karma,” Albert says, reeling away from Cooper’s touch.

“Albert – ”

“For what it’s worth Coop, I had something planned for us, I just wanted something – ” Cooper’s earnest eyes are searching his, “something that was clearly not meant to be.”

Before Cooper can reply he pushes passed him, and through the throng of couples dancing on his way towards the door. Outside Harry and Hawk give him a long stare as he passes, but their opinion of him has never mattered —  and certainly doesn’t right now.

On the drive back to the Great Northern he focuses on the throbbing pain in his nose —  the itchy blood clotting above his lip, the dull chime of Cooper’s would-be present in the trunk. He parks at the Great Northern, and inspects his nose in the visor mirror. It doesn’t look broken, but could probably do with some ice. But the idea of pressing a bag of ice to his nose alone in his hotel room doesn’t seem as therapeutic as drinking the wine on the seat next to him. At least he won’t be sober while mentally replaying the conversation he just had. Already the childish, _did they get you a present?_ , comes to mind.

He cleans up what he can of the blood with a napkin before retrieving both the wine and the package from the trunk. It might help his mood to watch the singing bowl disappear in the waterfall. He heads to the picnic table he’s set up earlier. Someone once told him that you couldn’t have a funeral at a wedding. And while he can’t remember the context of the comment —  he does feel the sentiment now as he sits on the stupid tacky table cloth he’d put down earlier.

He twists the cap off the wine and takes a swig. When he’s halfway through the bottle, he lays down, entirely sprawled across the top of the table. His face doesn’t hurt anymore, but the smell of cheap beer on his coat is making him feel nauseous. He turns his head away and finds himself staring at the box of pastries, still untouched on the bench next to him. He thinks about kicking them to the ground, but doesn’t have the heart to do it. Instead he looks back up at the stars.

What he’d wrongly assumed for months was that Cooper needed more from the relationship but thought he didn’t want to give it. But he’d forgotten that Cooper doesn’t miss a thing. Knows someone is lying by an errant glance or a shift in their chair. He would have known how Albert felt, would have been able to get what he wanted.  It’s not Cooper that needs more from this relationship. _I do_ , Albert thinks, laughing to himself and sits up just enough to take another swig of wine.

Isn’t it typical that he’d project his own feelings onto someone else? Psych 101 stuff really. He lets his feet dangle off the table and imagines he’s on a metal autopsy table. It must be easy to be dead. Letting someone else figure out who hurt you. He’d make a good corpse, he decides, and sucks in a breath to imagine what it’d feel like to just stop breathing. Just stop. He feels the bottle of wine sliding from his fist. But when the thud of it connecting with the bench or ground never comes, he opens his eyes.

“Is it your professional opinion that you should be drinking after experiencing trauma to the head?”

Cooper tilts what’s left of the bottle —  which isn’t much —  into the grass. Which is a shame because Albert was really beginning to like the way it was becoming more and more flavorless.

“Who gives a damn about my professional opinion?”

“You’re drunk. In the woods at night. In a town where a serial killer is loose.”

“Good thing I’m not a pretty blonde girl.”

“Albert — ”

“What do you want?”

“To make sure you’re okay.”

“Well I am.” He tries sitting up, and feels the landscape move with him like a kaleidoscope of rushing water, stars, and Cooper’s look of concern.

Cooper takes a step closer, reaching a hand forward to gingerly inspect Albert’s nose. “I don’t understand why you set yourself up to get hurt like this.”

“I didn’t exactly run into that hulking boob’s fist if that’s what you mean.” Albert watches Cooper’s eyes —  dark and troubled —  as they scan his face.

“You might as well have.”

He turns his head away, and Cooper lowers his hand again.

“Is this for my birthday?” Cooper motions to the candles and box of pastries. If Albert could somehow say he stumbled upon this by accident, he would. Because he can’t think of what to say, he stuffs a cigarette between his lips, briefly remembering how stupid he was —  brushing his teeth earlier like he was in for some big romantic kiss.

He stubbornly watches the mist rise off the waterfall as he takes a drag. Cooper sits down on the bench of the picnic table, his shoulder almost touching Albert’s bended knees. He fishes the lighter from under the folds of Albert’s coat and lights a candle.

“From Jocelyn's?” he says mostly to himself, as if already accepting Albert wasn’t going to answer. He unties the ribbon on the box of pastries.  “Chocolate eclairs.”

They sit in silence as Cooper takes a bite of the eclair and Albert takes another drag of his cigarette. And as much as Albert is telling himself that his hostility isn’t dissipating with every patient moment that Cooper sits waiting —  it is.

“Nothing like an eclair from Jocelyn’s,” Cooper says, but even drunk, Albert can sense the comment’s half-heartedness.

“There was supposed to be cake.” He could almost laugh now at how upset he’d been this morning — as if _that_ had ruined the day. “And a present.”

Cooper looks down at the box, the packaging tape hanging off of it in shreds. “Looks like there still is?” He pulls the brass bowl from the box and turns it over in his hands. “Albert, this is — ”

“Broken.”

“Very thoughtful.”

Albert finally drags his gaze away from the waterfall to glance down at Cooper. He is running his finger over patterns in the design —  the golden metal flickering in the candlelight.

“Well it sounds awful anyway,” he says, but the contempt is gone from his voice.

Cooper digs through the packaging for the mallet. He strikes the side and the familiar off key chime echoes through the trees and hovers in the space between them. But somehow it doesn’t sound as awful as it had in the conference room earlier.

“The singing bowl is a centering tool. It enables complete left and right brain synchronization for relaxation.”

“I think the wine did the same trick,” Albert says. When Cooper doesn’t respond he glances down at the delicate way Cooper is still holding the damn thing as if it wasn’t already broken.

“Sorry,” he says, mostly meaning the stupid comment. “Sorry it’s broken.”  
  
“Albert, it’s beautiful because the intention behind it is beautiful.”

“I wanted you to have a good birthday, Coop. To maybe show you...”  He sighs and glances down at a dried smear of blood he hadn’t noticed before now on the sleeve of his coat. “But you know —  the best laid plans of mice and men…” Albert smashes his cigarette into the top of the table, creating a perfect black circle through the plastic tablecloth.

Cooper carefully sits the bowl back in its packaging. “What was your plan?” He asks, pushing himself up, so he’s sitting on the table too.

The shifting weight makes Albert feel dizzy, which Cooper seems to sense, and throws a careful arm around his shoulders. The touch feels nice, feels warm, and Albert has to force himself not to do something embarrassing like put his head on Cooper’s shoulder.

“I don’t know anymore. Bad.”

“It isn’t so bad, is it? Sitting here together.”

Albert knows what Cooper is doing. A meditation technique to bring him to the present moment. Get him out of his head and into his body. It won’t work.

“What do you get out of this Coop?”

Cooper only smiles and threads his fingers through Alberts’. “I get you.”

“But — ”

“Albert, the truth is like a lion; you don't have to defend it. Let it loose; it will defend itself.”

Albert lifts an eyebrow, trying to follow the unusual pivots and turns of Cooper’s thoughts. But Cooper is leaning closer, his lips pressing tentatively against Alberts’. Maybe because this is the first time they’ve ever kissed outside of an apartment or a hotel room or because Cooper was afraid of hurting Albert’s face —   but the kiss is soft and sweet and different from usual. It makes something deep in the pit of Albert’s stomach flip over. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding through Cooper’s lips where the taste of rich chocolate is mixed with cheap beer.

Cooper presses Albert back against the table. Albert grabs Cooper by the coat collar to pull him down on top of him. He knows it’s stupid that he should feel any ounce of exhilaration kissing in the dark woods like any number of the mindless teenagers of this town. But it feels so good —  the cool night wind on his cheeks, which are flushed and hot as he thinks about the way Cooper fits between his legs.

They break apart, panting and he reaches up to cup Cooper’s cheek and draw him closer.

“Let’s go back to your room,” Cooper whispers, his breath hot against Albert’s neck.

“What about the morning?” Albert asks before he can stop himself.

Cooper narrows his eyes. “The morning?”

“I want you to stay —  the whole night —  if that’s okay.”

“Albert, that’s not only okay, it’s my birthday wish.”

Albert laughs, shaking his head. Cooper helps him off the table, one arm balancing the singing bowl and pastry box and the other steadying him. Albert smiles in the face of everything that went wrong. Because it doesn’t feel all that wrong with Cooper’s arm around him as he leads him to a different kind of night together.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story [please consider buying the author a damn fine cup of coffee.](http://ko-fi.com/A402111U)


End file.
